


Away

by ebbj9891



Series: In Quest Of Something [24]
Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Series, Therapy, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-22 01:20:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3709567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ebbj9891/pseuds/ebbj9891
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Therapy has stolen Justin away to a difficult place. Brian is trying his hardest to stand by him and offer his support.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Away

"Sunshine," Brian calls as he unlocks the front door, "I'm home."

Ordinarily, he would expect to hear a response - perhaps an excited greeting of some sort. Justin calling out happily, Justin running to greet him with a hug, Justin yelling out for Brian to come and find him in their bedroom... 

It hasn't been like that lately. Not even close. Brian isn't at all surprised when his homecoming is met with pure silence. He's taught himself not to be surprised, not to be hurt, not to take it personally...

This isn't about him. It's about something else entirely; things that are far beyond his control, things that Justin has had to seek therapy for.

For the past few months, Brian has supported Justin unreservedly. What else is there to do? Justin says he needs therapy. Brian trusts his judgment. Despite his long-held reservations regarding therapy, he hopes it will help.

But it isn't as simple as that. Therapy has stolen Justin away; it's vanished the person that Brian knew and replaced him with a husk. Justin is almost unrecognisable. He's like a shadow of himself, or a version that's been partially erased. There's none of his vibrance, his spark... there's just this faded being who occasionally tries to impersonate Justin. The most vivid thing about him is the lingering sense of pain. Brian can sense it within him and all around him - pain that permeates, pain that persists.

It  _hurts._ Brian feels terrible for it, but god fucking dammit, it hurts to see Justin like this.

There are good days and bad ones, but even the good days provide little reprieve. On the good days, Justin is quiet and often in a world of his own. On the bad days, he's frighteningly fragile. 

Regardless of whether it's a good day or a bad one, Brian is lost. He's been in contact with Justin's therapist, who has sent him pamphlets and articles on supporting a loved one. Brian has read through each and every one obsessively but none of them fit. He can't quite understand why. Maybe it's him. Maybe it's them. He doesn't know.

He feels like a fucking failure. 

But failure isn't an option. Brian is determined to fight through this hell and make sure that the both of them come out the other side. He has long since given up on sourcing inspiration from pamphlets or articles. It's time to try some different tactics - ones that feel like they might fit.

He removes his jacket and tie and slips out of his shoes. There's a throb in his feet from running around the city all day to attend meetings, and an ache in his neck that never seems to go away. Brian stubbornly ignores both and heads into the kitchen, where he knows Justin will be. He can smell something delicious cooking, which instantly heartens him. Lately, he's felt starved for any sign of Justin -  _his_ Justin - and this one is so promising that it sends an electric rush of hope through him.

Justin is standing by the stove, stirring something in a pot. Up close, it smells even more delicious. As Brian approaches, he glances at the sketchbook splayed open on one of the kitchen stools - its pages are worryingly blank. His appetite starts to fade. There's a stack of papers next to the sketchbook. Words jump out at Brian:  _post-traumatic stress disorder, anxiety, debilitating, lifelong._ His appetite vanishes. Mustering all the willpower that he can, Brian pushes through the agonising concern and goes to kiss Justin's cheek.  _  
_

"Hey," Brian says as he winds his arms around Justin's waist from behind. He doesn't ask how Justin's day was; the answer is plainly apparent. As if the blank sketchbook and sinister articles weren't clue enough, Justin is tense from top to toe, and his face is a perfect blank. It's hard to tell whether he's forcing that or whether that's the end product of the day he's had. Brian forces himself not to question it. He's hounded by endless questions lately, most of them unanswerable or leading nowhere good.

"Hi," Justin replies. He leans back into Brian but says nothing more. Not surprising, considering he could barely get 'hi' out without sounding like the two letters were being choked out of him.

Brian watches as Justin stirs the soup on the stovetop. His movements are slow and very deliberate, as they always are after therapy. It's almost eerie watching him at times like this, whether he's cooking, painting, reading - whatever. He moves almost robotically, as though every inch he takes is strictly calculated. That's frightening enough in and of itself, but what's worse is when it fails. With all the fatigue and stress that Justin has been wading through, his hand frequently cramps up and becomes useless. When it happens during these robotic spells, it upsets him more than Brian realised was possible. Sometimes he starts shaking; other times he tears up; occasionally, he starts to cry.

Brian has developed a sixth sense for it. He watches Justin stirring the soup and decides to take over. There's no use in adding a ruined dinner (at best) to this mix, or even first-degree burns (at worst).

He peels his right arm away from Justin's waist and gently takes the wooden spoon away from him. Justin hesitates for a moment, but then relents and caves back into Brian's embrace. As Brian takes over, he matches Justin's movements: slow and steady.

"I hope you like it," Justin says softly. "It's a new recipe. Daph emailed it to me... it's red pepper and sundried tomato."

Brian presses a gentle kiss to the back of Justin's head. He almost smiles at the sound of Justin's contented sigh, but the comfort is quickly whisked away as Justin slips from his embrace and says evasively, "I'll set the table."

"Sure," Brian responds casually. He continues stirring the soup, but although his gaze is fixed on the swirling liquid, he's focused on Justin. He listens carefully as Justin moves about the kitchen gathering bits and pieces, then tracks his footfalls as he goes to set the dining table. The cutlery rattles as its laid upon the wooden tabletop, probably by shaking hands. Brian cringes as he hears Justin exhale raggedly; it's a desperate sound that stays with him.

It's soon accompanied by a measured call of, "Can you dish that up?"

"Yeah." Brian grabs a ladle and starts spooning the soup into the bowls set out on the countertop. It occurs to him how clean the kitchen is - almost every surface is bare and practically sparkling, which is most unusual. Normally when Justin cooks, the kitchen ends up looking like a hurricane shook it inside out. Brian tries not to think about why it looks so pristine. He tries not to envisage Justin here, all alone, cleaning compulsively to avoid dealing with anything else, or perhaps to work off the frustrations sourced from another arduous therapy session. 

They eat dinner amidst barren silence. Rather, Brian eats while Justin pushes his spoon through his bowl of soup idly. Brian tries not to watch too obsessively, but it's almost impossible to avoid when he's this worried. Hell, he passed 'worried' weeks ago. His current state defies description.

Suddenly, Justin speaks up. With a wince, he admits, "Jo says that I should stick with the twice-weekly sessions for a while yet. She said we can revisit the frequency in a couple of months."

Brian's first impulse is to ask:  _And how does that make you feel?_ His very next thought is:  _What the fuck kind of question is that? What are you, a dimestore shrink?_

He almost kicks himself, it's such a useless fucking cliché. After reconsidering, he says, "If that's what you need to do."

"It's not what I want to do," Justin mutters. "I want this to stop."

Brian remains silent. For whatever reason, he can't summon a response. Maybe it's that there's nothing to be said - at least not by him. Luckily, this isn't one of Justin's quiet nights where he remains almost entirely mute. He huffs and continues, "I'm fucking sick of dredging everything up and not feeling any better for it. I walk out of there twice a week feeling like I've had the shit beaten out of me."

Then, with intense bitterness: "Or like I've taken a bat to the head all over again."

To hear it mentioned, especially with such callousness, very nearly makes Brian flinch. He manages to pull himself together just in time, but then all of his effort is being driven into remaining calm and collected, and he can't find the right words.

The silence that spans between them is excruciating. Brian is struck with guilt. He has no idea what to say, no idea what to do, no idea how to be the kind of partner that Justin needs. The sense of helplessness is stifling.

But apparently, he's not alone in feeling guilty. With a sharp sigh, Justin drops his head into his hands and laments, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I know I haven't been easy to deal with lately. I don't even know why you stay with me."

Brian stares at him from across the dining table; it's a short distance that suddenly feels painfully expansive. He cocks his head and urges, "Come here."

It's to his immense relief that Justin leaps out of his chair and practically sprints to Brian's side. Brian grabs Justin and tugs him into his lap. Once he has a satisfying armful of Justin, he holds him close and says, "I'm with you because I want to be. And like you've said yourself - I'm not just here for the pretty parts."

"I'm-"

"Don't you dare apologise." Brian cradles his face gently. Justin's face is worn, making him appear far older than his twenty-four years. It makes Brian's chest ache. He drives every ounce of effort into smiling at Justin and promising, "It's going to get better."

Justin shakes his head slightly. "That's what everyone keeps saying, but-"

"No buts. It's going to get better."

"Since when are you so optimistic?"

Justin pairs this question with a laugh, but it comes out hollow. Brian can't blame him. There's a version of himself, deep inside, that doesn't want to believe what he's just said. After all, who the fuck knows how this is going to end? Maybe Justin will get through therapy and move forward. Maybe he'll quit next week and lapse back into determined denial. There's no way that Brian can actually guarantee such an optimistic outcome.

There's only faith. He looks at Justin, studies him, focuses on looking past his worn and wearied exterior. Brian hasn't seen him smile properly in weeks; he decides, for now, to pick up the slack. He smiles at Justin and answers truthfully, "Since you."

The corners of Justin's mouth quirk, as though a smile is ardently trying to break through. A slight blush forms on his cheeks and he ducks his head, as though to hide it. Brian touches his chin and tilts his head up. Then he says, "Let's go away this weekend."

A bemused smile begins to form on Justin's face. "Really?"

 _That's more like it,_ Brian thinks, encouraged by the growing smile. "Why not?"

Justin shrugs. "Do you even have the time? You're already taking all that time off in the summer-"

"Yeah, but this could be time away where I can actually relax."

"I thought you liked the idea of taking Gus on a trip," Justin says defensively, a slight scowl darkening his face. 

"I do," Brian says quickly, because truthfully, he's looking forward to spoiling his kid rotten. "I just don't expect it to be all that relaxing. I mean, have you _met_ Gus?"

This time, Justin laughs properly. Brian is delighted to hear it. He strokes his hand slowly up Justin's thigh and says temptingly, "Whereas you, me... maybe Tom's beach house..."

Justin grins, looking more and more like himself by the second. "Like a road trip?"

"Sure, like a road trip," Brian agrees with feigned reluctance. He throws in an eye roll for good measure even though the undeniable reality is that he would do anything to make Justin happy right now. "I have a meeting first thing Friday, but I can get Cynthia to clear everything else. We could come back on Monday. Sound good?"

"I'd love that," Justin enthuses, now breaming brighter than the sun. He throws his arms around Brian and hugs him tight.

Brian hugs him back twice as hard. He's not satisfied until their bodies are completely crushed together. It's not enough until the embrace just shy of painful. Only then does he start to feel some sense of certainty returning.

Apparently it's still not tight enough; Justin squeezes him and whispers a wearied confession: "I need to get away."

"I know, Sunshine," Brian murmurs, nuzzling into Justin's shoulder. He feels Justin trembling against him slightly, feels tears soaking through the collar of his shirt, feels Justin's hands clinging to him a fraction tighter. Brian runs his hand over Justin's back, smoothing it up and down, until the trembling stops. He holds him closer - almost impossibly close - and nuzzles Justin's soft blonde hair affectionately, until the tears are no longer falling. Justin continues holding onto him with a desperate grasp, but Brian's embrace is much the same. He gives Justin one more squeeze to reassure him and repeats quietly, "I know."

**The End**

**Author's Note:**

> I've been interested in further exploring Justin's road to recovery from Brian's POV for a while and inspiration finally struck. At some point, I'll follow this up with a fic focusing on their weekend away :)


End file.
